


The Mural

by Flutiebear



Series: Walk Beside Me [4]
Category: Dragon Quest Series, Dragon Quest XI
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Erik Suffers 2019, He Has Stolen (1) One Thing, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, One Tiny Bed, Sharing a Bed, Sorry Not Sorry About This Ending, Tag Courtesy Of Claranon, Terran Is Now Officially As Capable A Thief As Erik, Two Drunk Boys, Two Thousand Suffer Teen, tagging just to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 10:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17579234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: "No, silly." You reach over and flick the end of his nose—or try to, anyway. Your finger lands somewhere on his cheek before sliding down and it's kind of awkward, maybe, but you're feeling too good about your great idea to really worry about that right now. "Let's draw 'em another lady. Big hair, big dress. Big…everything."After the events of Phnom Nonh, Erik and the Luminary get drunk and decide to unleash their... creative sides. Shenanigans ensue.





	The Mural

**Author's Note:**

> This monster of a fic wouldn't have happened without @claranon and @anytaintedcreature cheering me on. Y'all are the best. <3
> 
> This fic takes place about two months after the events of "Needs Well Met", and immediately after you defeat Dora-In-Grey in Act 1.

You're drunk.

You don't get drunk. _Ever_. It's kind of a rule, actually. But then Terran just had to go and be _Terran,_ sweet-talking the six of you into a celebratory toast that somehow became several more, until the only ones left standing were you and Terran and a few mostly empty bottles of Phnom Nonh's finest sombai.

You don't get drunk— _ever_ —and it's precisely for reasons like these: Your head feels stuffed with cotton; your limbs wobble like wet noodles; and every time you turn your head, the bar stool underneath you lists like the deck of a sinking ship.

And your best friend, your Terran—no, wait, just _Terran_ (you have a bad habit of thinking of him as _your_ Terran)(especially when you are drunk)(which you aren't, not ever)—is the most beautiful creature you have ever clapped eyes on.

"Dora, man," Terran is saying. His voice is thick, slurry with an accent you've never heard before; his words tumble from his throat, like boulders crashing down mountains. "She really was the worst."

"Seriously," you agree with a vigorous nod or seven. "Worse 'n Faris. Worse 'n Noah. The. _Worst."_ You frown at the sound of your own voice, which seems as if it is originating from outside your body. Perhaps somewhere in the clouds, maybe?

Wow. You are _really_ blasted.

Not that Terran is faring any better. His eyes are hooded and his cheeks pink, and he looks slightly rumpled, like he's just come inside from a blizzard. He ought to shuck his overcoat, you think, because it's damn hot in Phnom Nonh and even damn hotter in this bar. Indeed, you're just about to slide off your stool and help him do just that, when it occurs to you that removing Terran's coat would leave him in just his shirt sleeves, with only a thin layer of cotton between you and his every slant and muscle—and, in your current intoxicated state, that _might_ not be the best of ideas.

Actually, now that you're thinking about it—and you are, you are _really_ thinking about it—the only fate worse than a damp and flushed Terran would be a damp, flushed and partly disrobed Terran.

"Y'know wha's the worse part? Worst. The worst part?" Terran sets his glass of sombai down with considerably more force than intended, and a fat dollop of liquid splashes right onto his forehead. Your hand comes up of its own volition, and it's halfway to his face before you stop yourself from wiping it away. To cover, you bring your forefinger to your lips instead. Terran's eyes follow the motion, fazed yet fascinated.

"Hmm." You pretend to consider his question. "Maybe z'at we did all that, we fought a lady who was also a shrub, an' we didn't even get an orb for it?"

Terran waves a hand vaguely at you, then teeters on his stool. You grab his shoulder, steadying him. If you take your time in letting your hand fall away, it's probably because you're so drunk.

"Orbs-shmorbs. We'll catch 'em all eventually. Nah, the worse part—"

"Worst."

" _Worst_ , thank you—" He acknowledges your input with another sip from his glass,"—Z'at now Phnomle Noms doesn't even got any mural anymore now."

"Doesn't matter." You drain your own glass, which was mostly just dregs anyway. "Was a stupid mural, anyway."

Terran gasps, scandalized.

"Erik," he says, somehow managing to drag out the consonants of your name, "You can't jus' call a mural _stupid_."

"It tried to eat them. Then it tried to eat us." You swipe the empty glass out of his hand, then attack it with the bottle of sombai. Next, you re-fill yours. Forget water. Sombai is better. Yummy, yummy sombai. "Stupid, stupid, _stupid._ "

"Wasn't the mural, though. Was the shrub-lady in it." Terran's face falls. "An's now Phnumbly Noom doesn't got a shrub-lady anymore, an' s'all our fault."

Your stomach clenches. He just looks so… so _sad_ about the idea of a mural-less Phnom Nonh. It's awful. You can barely stand it. 

Because that's the thing about you and Terran. The one thing. The big thing. You'd do anything for him. _Anything_. You'd shave your head. You'd climb mountains. You'd fight dragons. Anything he wanted. He doesn't even need to ask. You'd just do it. Just like that.

It's one of the few fixed truths of your universe: _You, Erik, would do anything for Terran._

Maybe that's why the next words out of your mouth are, "I have an idea."

Terran brightens. "Oh?"

"'S a good idea."

Terran gives you the fish-eye. "Nobody never had a good idea they first had to say was a good idea."

"Oh. Uh." You had trouble following all that. "But this is a good idea, though."

"Hmm." He considers your words carefully and decides to accept them. "Okay. Le'z hear it."

You lean toward him conspiratorially. "Let's draw 'em one."

"Draw a good idea?"

"No, silly." You reach over and flick the end of his nose—or try to, anyway. Your finger lands somewhere on his cheek before sliding down and it's kind of awkward, maybe, but you're feeling too good about your great idea to really worry about that right now. "Let's draw 'em another lady. Big hair, big dress. Big…everything."

"Like—" Terran frowns, and it's like watching a ship unfurl its sails, one by one, in a vain attempt to catch the wind, "—on paper?"

"No." You grin. "Another mural."

"Hey." His eyebrows shoot into his hair. "That _is_ a good idea."

You beam at him. "I know! I was there when I had it!"

"Yeah. _Yeah._ " He's also grinning now, eyes bright as stars. "Another mural! An' this one won't eat anybody, 'cause we'll draw it, with, hmm—" He ponders this for a second. "Chalk!"

"Chalk! Yes! Of course!" You grab his shoulders and shake them a little. This is the best idea he's had since that second bottle of sombai. "Terran, you're goddamn brilliant."

He flushes. "Nah—"

"No, you're brilliant." You won't brook any argument from him on this, none at all. He needs to know how smart he is. Because you're not sure he really gets it. "Brilliant-brilliant. Brilliant, like the sun. Like a sunfish. 'S why you're the leader. The good idea haver."

Terran's gaze keeps dipping downward, and you feel like you've almost figured out where he's trying to look when the bartender leans over the counter toward the two of you.

"Boys," he says in a stern voice, "I need you to quiet it down a little. Other patrons are trying to enjoy their drinks, I think so."

"What? But 'm talking a perfectly normal voice," you say, noticing for the first time that your throat sort of hurts a little. "An' lookit 'im! He never talks! Not ever."

"Not ever-ever," Terran agrees emphatically.

The bartender is unmoved.

"Lower your voices or leave." As he walks away, he takes your bottle of sombai with him.

"Hey, we weren't done with that!" You look back to Terran. "Were you done with that?" He shakes his head. "Yeah, see? We weren't done with that!"

"You're done now, I think so," says the bartender. He returns with a slip of paper, which he slides over to you as he takes your glasses.

You look over your tab. The numbers swim in your vision like fish. Teeny, tiny fishies, made from ink and bad choices. "Hey," you squint at the piece of paper, "Don't we get a discount for savin' your asses from the shrub-lady?"

The bartender smiles with too much teeth. "That _is_ your discount, I think so."

Just as you're about to argue more, Terran slings an arm around your shoulders and what little rational thought remains sloshing about in your skull comes to a complete stop.

"'S okay, mister bar-guy," he says. "We were just leavin'."

Sweet, merciful Yggdrasil, Terran smells so good. Like sombai and monster guts and stale sweat and— _fuck._ Just. Good. So good, good, _good._ You inhale deeply, and a few strands of his hair catch on your lips. Seriously, it should be illegal for somebody to smell this good. Maybe it is, actually. Terran's still a wanted man, after all. So are you. You can't really remember the reasons why at the moment. Because that's how good Terran smells. 

You're vaguely aware of Terran throwing a handful of coins on the counter without counting them. Then he is directing you out the door, which he kicks open with his foot, his arm still warm and solid around your shoulder. Terran waves his other hand without looking back. "Smell ya later!" he shouts.

Then you're outside in the cool night air, which feels nice but doesn't really do much to sober you up.  All of Phnom Nonh stretches before you. At this hour, the town is quiet, deserted, with only strands of glittering paper lanterns to light the way. And Terran's arm is still around you. And he still smells good. What a great night this is turning out to be. Wow. _Wow._

"That guy's a jerk," you offer. "A big, sombai-stealing jerk."

"The jerk-iest." Terran's mouth is against your ear for some reason. His lips tickle the shell of your ear, sending shocks down your spine, and to other places beyond. If you turned your head right now, your lips would meet Terran's. You'd be kissing Terran. Again. Your dick jumps at the thought.

Before you can wrestle yourself back into submission, however, Terran's arm slides from your shoulders, and suddenly, Phnom Nonh doesn't feel as warm as it used to.

"Y'know," says Terran muzzily, "maybe jerkface'd still be happy if he had his shrub-lady?"   

With a triumphant gleam in his eye, he opens his hand, in which is a small piece of chalk.  

"Where'd you get that?" you ask, confused.

Terran grins. "From the bar. The sign." 

You blink once, twice. "You— _stole_ it?"

"Sssh!" His head whips this way and that, making sure nobody heard. "'s a secret!"

"You. The Luminary. _Stole a thing._ " You shake your head. You can't decide if this revelation horrifies you or turns you on. No, wait. The latter. It's definitely the latter.

"I didn't steal," he says loftily. "We'll give it back, when we're dumb. Done."

"You're gonna get in so much trouble." You lick your lips. They feel dry as paper. Too bad you don't have any sombai anymore to wet them. "They're gonna throw you in big-boy jail again."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yuh-huh."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yuh-huh!"

"Nuh. _Uh._ " He puts his hands on his hips and grins at you like he has you beat. And maybe he does because you can't figure out any way to win this argument, and also because you've mostly forgotten the point you'd been arguing. "We _aren't_ gonna get caught, Mr. Fancy-Drunk-Spikes—"

"Hey!"

"—'Cause we're gonna be _sneaky._ " Terran leans toward you conspiratorially, and you can smell the sombai on his breath. Did he really just call _you_ drunk? That's rich. He can barely stand. "You with me?"

"Always," you answer at once.

For a moment, he looks taken aback. Not in a bad way. Just… thrown. He looks at you and you look at him and in the intervening time you consider your universe, and the few truths upon which it hangs.

"K. Le'z do this." He curls his hand into a determined fist.

"For the bar-guy!"

He grins, warm and beautiful as a sunbeam, and your heart flops over like a dog begging pets. You did that. You made that smile happen. And you'd do anything, _anything,_ just to make it happen again. 

"For the bar-guy," he agrees.

"Ssh!" You shove your forefinger toward his lips. "'S a secret!"  

His lips part, and he looks like he's about to say something, but then he just giggles, and that makes you giggle, and then the both of you are giggling together.   

Eventually, after some indeterminate amount of time, you run out of giggles and collect yourselves. It takes some effort, however, and leaves you slightly breathless.

"So where to?" you ask.

Terran scans the plaza like a sailor scouting for the horizon. "There."

"'K." You slap him on the back, and he pitches slightly. "Go on. You first. I'll be your lookout."

He gives you a firm nod, as if he were a soldier heading off to battle. Then he starts to make his way across the main plaza.

Sort of. Actually, he's really taking his time about it. He hunches his shoulders, as if he had a sackful of gold under each arm, and he tiptoes gently across individual cobblestones, taking care not to step on a single crack. Also, with every step he brings his knees up about waist-high, like some kind of insane stork. He's ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. You love him. _It._ You love it. It, being how ridiculous he is. Not him.

Anyway, you're about to caution him to hurry up when you spot an ominous figure looming at the top of the stairs across the plaza. Thinking fast, you start to whistle. You whistle as loud as you possibly can.

The figure, as it turns out, is a tree. You choose to believe that's only the case because the figure—which really was there, and which definitely was not a tree all along—decided to run away, because it was in awe of your amazing whistling skills.

You really are very good at whistling. So good, in fact, that you might even consider going pro one day. Yeah. Now _there's_ an idea. Maybe after you've saved Mia, and the world too, you could become a professional whistler. Maybe you could even join a symphony. It'd depend on what Terran wanted to do, though. You couldn't leave him. Not ever-ever. But maybe he could become the conductor. Because, you know. The lightning thing. You snort at your own joke.

Eventually Terran makes it across the plaza, and he turns back to you and waves for you to follow. Composing yourself, you dash across the plaza after him, making sure to stick to the shadows. You even throw a somersault or two in there. For stealth. Because you're stealthy.

Your stomach kicks against your throat, but you swallow it back down. This is going to work. This is totally going to work.

When you make it across the plaza, you're surprised to see Terran burying his mouth in his fist.

"Wha'?" you ask innocently.

"You—you!" He doubles over, wheezing for air.

"What about me?"

"You _rolled._ Across the plaza. Like a rock bomb."

"But I didn't explode," you point out.

"An' the whistling. The. _Whistling._ " He grabs his belly as if it hurts. "No wonder. They caught you. In Heliodor." 

"Oh yeah?" You cross your arms defensively. "Like you're much better, Storky-Foot. 'S a good thing there're no sewer-dragons here to turn you to s'mores."

That just makes him laugh even harder. And you want to laugh too, but if you start laughing, then you'll never stop and then the bar-guy will never get his big lady. So you put what you hope is a steadying hand on Terran's back and pat him gently. "Pull yourself t'gether, man."

"Okay. _Okay._ " He inhales deeply and pushes himself back to standing. He attempts to smooth his sweat-damp hair. "I'm good. I'm cool. Yeah. Okay. Le'z do this."

He grabs your arm and pulls it to his side, leading you down the alley. "C'mon," he says, "I got jus' the place." 

You stumble along with him. "Where you takin' me?"

"You'll see."

His ribs are surprisingly solid against your bicep. You're amazed that you can actually feel them through his duster. He must really be leaning on you—or maybe you're leaning on him? You're not sure; this whole balance thing is a little hard at the moment.

Terran leads you down behind an alleyway smothered in shadows, lit only by the starlight and feeble glow of paper lanterns farther down the path. It's all terribly secret and soft, like the kind of places in Downtown Heliodor that were designed with amorous encounters in mind, and you wonder if maybe, just maybe, Terran is trying to tell you something.

He stops and turns to you, and maybe he can read your thoughts, because he sways on his feet and looks at you very expectantly. Then you remember that you're supposed to be drawing a mural.

You squint around. "Here?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"But 's dark. Nobody'll see it."

"The Spurt of the Land will." Terran points toward the sky.

"The who?"

"The Spurt! The Spurt sees all."

You snort and don't even bother to correct him, because you're more preoccupied with how cute his red cheeks are. He must be really flushed if you can see it in all these shadows. "Hope not. S'creepy."

"'S not!"

"Is too. Don't want no ghost watchin' me wank n' stuff."

He snickers. "Oh, you plannin' on wankin' tonight?"

"What?" Heat floods your face. "No. Shuddup."

Then Terran gives you the strangest smile, one that's mostly eyelashes and curling lip. You'd swear he's making eyes at you, but that doesn't make any sense, because the idea of you wanking isn't at all sexy, not like that face he's making at you right now. He's just drunk, and so are you.  

"So, you gon' draw," you ask him, "or what?"

Startled, he looks down at the chalk in his hand, as if he'd quite forgotten he was holding it. "Uh, yeah. What should I draw?"

"I 'unno. A lady? A big one." You wave your finger at him. "No shrubs."

He stares at the wall blankly. "Uh."

You sigh and reach out your hand. "Fine. Give it. I'll take it from here."

He slaps the piece of chalk into your hand. Your fingers close around it and also, for a few seconds, his hand too, and you marvel in the way that your hands fit together so easily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.   

Then you turn toward the wall.

Biting your lip, you sweep the chalk across the brick, throwing yourself bodily into the movement. Truth is, you've always been good at drawing. It takes deftness, guile, creativity. In fact, drawing is a lot like thievery, except that you actually like to do it. 

You draw as big a lady as you can, with huge eyes and big hair and tits the size of boulders. It's pretty good, if you say so yourself. Especially those tits. You've never really been one for tits, exactly; but as a self-styled artist, you can appreciate the aesthetics of a good pair.

You step back to survey your handiwork.

Terran frowns. "Tha's Jade."

"What?" Horrified, you realize he's right. Sweet Yggdrasil, you even gave her the damn ponytail. "Nuh-uh."

"Yuh-huh." His frown deepens. "Why d'you make 'er chest so big?"

"'S not Jade!" Frantically, you scribble out the ponytail in favor of loose locks.

"Gross, man. Tha's my sister."

"'S not Jade! It's, It's," you think as fast as you can, which isn't very fast after three bottles of sombai—fuck, you could _really_ use a drink of water right now—"Hennerk."

Terran snickers behind his fingers. "Tha's not Hendrik!"

"'S _totally_ Hennrik. Hendick. Whatever, it's him." Hastily, you scratch the chalk over his face. "See? 'ere's his beard." You make more scratchings. "An' his unicorn."

"Ohhh." Terran considers the drawing. "Guess it _is_ Hendrik."

You grin smugly.

Terran squints at the wall. "Wow. Lady-Hendrik's really ugly."

"Yeah, well." You shrug. "Maybe she should shave once inna while."

"You sure bar-guy'll like this?"

"Sure. They like Hennry in Octagonier, right? 'Member that big statue?"

"True. 'S a good point. You're full of good points."

You point to your scalp. "They come from my head."    

Terran thinks for a moment, then waggles his fingers in silent request for the chalk. You give it to him. "He should be talkin' somethin'. Like a plaque, you know?"

 He stands on his tippy-toes and scratches out a speech bubble.

From the bold, sloppy print, you can just make out the words: "I, HENDRIK, AM A DICK WIPE."

You burst into laughter.

"Perfect," you say. "Sounds just like him."

Now it's his turn to preen at your praise. "Look," he crows. "We did an art!"

You clap his shoulder. "Good job, partner."

He offers you a smile so lopsided that the corners of his mouth move in different directions. Man, he's absolutely _blasted_. "Partner," he repeats. "It's bee-yoo-tiful."

" _You're_ beautiful," you snicker, as if it were the most brilliant retort you'd ever come up with and not something a seven-year old would say.

He giggles. "So's you."

Then he stops laughing.

So do you.

"I mean it," you say.

"Me too," he says.

His gaze is serious, and it holds yours without breaking, without blinking. Your breath falters, your heart skitters against your ribs.

And weirdly, you start to think about sailing; about how on the open water, a really big storm will sometimes linger on the horizon for a long time, days even, without ever coming any closer—until in a single instant it's upon you, and then the clouds go black and the waves swell and you're drowning in all directions at once. That's exactly how you feel now. Like the sky has ripped open and swallowed you whole.

Incredibly, here, in front of this big-titted mural of Hendrik, you realize that your universe has somehow shifted. That there's a new truth to be counted among all the others. A new star to steer your ship by.

You have to tell Terran. You tell him everything, don't you? ( _Almost_ everything, a voice in the back of your head whispers. You ignore it.) So of course you gotta tell him this, too.

You suck in a deep breath. Yeah. You're gonna do it. Now. Definitely now. Because you might never get another chance. You might never have this kind of courage again.

You open your mouth.

"I lorf you," you blurt.

He blinks.

Then he laughs. He doubles over, laughing great belly-shaking laughs, until he stumbles a little into the wall, smearing the chalk. You can't help but laugh a little too.

"You… _lorf_ me?" He claps your shoulder with his hand to keep himself upright. "What is, what is that," he can barely get out the words through his wheezes, "What is _lorf?_ "

You're giggling too, now; in the back of your mind there's a small voice that says something very important almost happened, something that still has to happen, but for right now, all you can focus on is how beautiful his laughter is, and how he still hasn't let go of your shoulder, and how he leans into you like a ship tacking into the wind.

"What?" You decide the best option is to play it casual. You can sort the rest out later. "What, you never heard of lorf before?"

And that just makes Terran laugh even harder, until he loses his balance and pitches against you, shoving his head into your belly—it's a good thing, a _damn_ good thing, that he didn't connect with you any lower.

The two of you fall against the wall. Terran is still laughing, except now he's laughing into your stomach, his lips inches from your groin, and you can feel every shoulder shake inside your ribs like a thunderclap. Your head thunks against the hard brick, while his palms slide around your hips, warm and strong, drawing you closer, keeping you in place. One slowly slides up your back, snaking under your shirt. You could die here, you think, with Terran's volcano-hot mouth against your belly and his hands holding onto you for dear life. That'd be fine, really. Just fine.

Then Terran removes his hands and walks them up the wall behind you, bringing himself up to some semblance of an upright posture, until he is angled almost completely against you. Your knee is between his legs, his head dipped to your shoulder, and his dick—oh sweet merciful Yggdrasil is that his _dick_ —

Your arms come up automatically and wrap his waist tight. You don't have the strength left in you anymore to stop them. All your energy, all your focus has gone elsewhere. You're so hard you can barely see straight.

"Lorf," he wheezes into your ear. "'S that some kinda bread?"

Your lips graze his neck. Terran's skin tastes like the sea, like a memory. "Nah. 'S just lorf."

His hands tangle up in your hair, fingernails lightly scraping against your scalp. He's not laughing so much anymore. "Lorf's not a word, Erik."

"Is so."

"Is not."

"Is so."

 _"Is not."_ He thrusts his hips at you to accentuate the point.

 _Fuck._ Groaning, you let your head fall backward.

That felt good. That felt better than good. That felt—inevitable.

"'s so," you sigh, hoping he'll do it again.

He does.

His fingers are on your jaw now, tilting your head back toward him. He is close, so close, his quickened breath light on your tongue. His lips skim yours.   

"Why Erik," he whispers with the articulation that only the truly hammered can manage, "I do believe you're drunk."

You can barely find the breath left in you to laugh. "So's you."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Terran's eyes are big and inescapable. There's flecks of gold among the storm-cloud grey, like stars in the sky. You could gaze into his eyes for hours. Forever, if he'd let you.

Your world narrows to his thumb still pressing into your chin, his fingers lightly brushing your jaw. When he licks his lips, tongue darting between teeth, you don't see it so much as feel it ricocheting up and down your spine.

You don't get drunk, ever, precisely for reasons like these: Your best friend is a very beautiful boy, and his lips are also very beautiful, and very close, and very, _very_ kissable.

"I lorf you," he murmurs, and you aren't sure whether he's laughing at you still or repeating what you said earlier, but it doesn't matter, because you just can't take your lips not being on his for a second longer.

He falls into you, or you fall into him, and suddenly you're both kissing each other and it's the most marvelous thing in the world, like you two invented kissing, right here and now. Also it's very wet. Sloppy, even. But as his tongue slides against yours, Terran makes the most delicious noise from the back of his throat, and all you can think about is how to get him to make those noises again, perhaps while he is thrusting his cock against your hips again, or maybe against other places.

You'd really like the other places.

You roll him over, so that now you're the one pressing him against the brick, pinning him in place, grinding your dick into his. Everything stinks of chalk and sombai. Your best friend's hands are everywhere: In your hair, on your neck, skimming down your collarbone. One palm slides to your ass and grips tight, pulling you closer, so that you can feel every inch of him pressing, _straining_ toward you. 

 _Fuck_ , he feels amazing. You feel amazing. Everything is amazing. You slide one trembling hand between your bodies, and—

"What's going on here?"

The two of you spring apart, as if burned.

At the end of the alley, holding a small lantern, is one of the merchants. The one with the stall, on the stairs. You've forgotten his name. Doesn't matter. What matters is that he's _pissed_. Real pissed. His scowl alone could set whole forests aflame.

As he lifts his lantern higher, his eyes widen. "What in Erdrea have you two done to my wall?"

"'S a mural—" Terran starts to explain, but you grab his arm and tug him the other way. Time for you to make your escape.

The two of you scamper back the way you came. Luckily for you, the merchant is too focused on the desecration of his wall to follow after you. Also, even drunk, you both run pretty fast. Definitely faster than a merchant. Or, at least, stealthier.

You stick to the shadows as long as you can, stumbling up and down stairwells, crouching behind railings, giggling behind crates. Every now and then, you chance it and pull Terran in for a devouring, devastating kiss.

Kissing Terran is like air, like fire. Like everything that makes the world work. Like something that could consume you, and you'd be happy to let it.

You break apart, gasping.

"The inn?" you pant against his mouth.

"Fuck, _yes_ ," he sighs.

You beam at each other. That's the thing about you and Terran. You're always on the same page, even when you're blasted out your skulls. Truly, you were meant to be.

Hand-in-hand, the two of you careen toward the inn. You only get lost twice. You've never stumbled so fast in all your life. It's like the dragon is behind you again, except the dragon is now in front of you and also down your pants; the dragon is your hard-on; and okay, maybe that's not the best of metaphors you've ever come up with, but literary devices don't matter right now, because as soon as you get to the inn you're either going to fuck and/or get fucked by Terran and literally nothing else matters but that.   

You burst through the inn doors, offer a polite tip of your head to the startled innkeeper, and stagger up the stairs to your shared room—and to think, this morning you complained about the expense of getting three rooms instead of two.

Somehow you unlock the door. Or maybe he does? It's all kind of a blur, really.

Inside, the room is pitch black. As soon as the door clicks shut behind you, he is on you again, hands and mouth slipping under your tunic. You gasp as his thumbs sweep your ribs, your nipples, the scar over your heart. Fuck, it's like Terran is everywhere at once.

You fumble with the buckles of his overcoat for a few hapless minutes before he breaks away and tries to do it himself. But he's having as much trouble as you are. The dark isn't helping. Maybe you should light a candle or something. However, that seems like an awful lot of effort right now to put into something that isn't kissing Terran.

Everything feels so far away. Like it's happening to somebody else; like it's a dream you're in the middle of waking from, and if you stop thinking about it for two seconds it'll vanish entirely. You really ought to drink some water, probably. But that would also mean not kissing Terran, and that would be a fate worse than death.

Eventually Terran gives up on his coat and crashes back into you. With a single swipe of his finger, he unlaces your tunic, then dips his head to your collarbone, tasting you. 

"Terran, _oh,_ " you moan against his lips, and you feel him melt into you like butter. He sucks at the delicate skin of your neck some more. A guttural noise escapes the back of your throat.

Then Terran stops. He leans his forehead against yours.

"What?"

"You sound so nice," he murmurs. "So nice. Also, my eyes are swimmy."

You snort. "Mine too."

"'S happens when you're drunk."

"Z'at's what they say."

"Who?"

"Dunno. They." You take his cheeks in your hands. You're about to start kissing him again, but then, a flicker of something—doubt, insecurity, sobriety—bursts to life inside your chest, and suddenly it doesn't matter how drunk you are, this thing inside you cannot, will not be ignored.

"This s'really happening, right?" You hold your breath as you wait for him to answer. After all, you spent two months torturing yourself over what happened in Dundrasil, that moment that started an awful lot like this one but which he still doesn't remember, maybe. So yeah. You have to know.

"Mmm," he hums, leaning toward you to resume where you left off.

You tip your head back out of his reach.

"Terran," through cottony lips, you manage to pronounce all the consonants of his name, "You want this, right?"

"Yes." He looks at you through his long, butterfly lashes. He licks his lips. You're almost undone. "I want this. You. _You._ More 'n anythin'. You."

"Not just 'cause we're drunk?"

His expression softens. "I want you always. Drunk or no drunk."

Warmth blooms in your chest. Your shoulders sag, like a great weight has lifted from them.

"Oh. 'Kay." You can't stop grinning. "Me too."

He smirks. "You want you too?"

You snort. "Shuddup."

He nudges your nose with his. "Come make me."

You crash into him like a tide. You kiss him and you kiss him and you can't stop kissing him, you can't stop your heart from racing, because this is really happening, all of it; it's really, _really_ happening.

You shove him and he falls, heavily, onto the groaning bed; you throw yourself on top of him. The ancient mattress squeaks in protest. Terran gasps.

"Sssh," he leans over and sternly wags a finger at the mattress. "Quiet, bed. You'll give us away!"

"Yeah." You tug at the straps of Terran's duster. Why on earth is he wearing so many goddamn buckles? Who even designed this coat? Is this some kind of chastity-belt for mountain folk? "Don' want the others comin' in to check."

Terran laughs into your neck. His teeth scrape your skin, making you shiver. "Nothin' goin' on here, no sirree."

"Mmm-mmm." You give up and snake your hands under the duster, rucking up his shirt. Oh _fuck,_ Terran has hair on his belly. You knew that, maybe. Most men do. But Terran's is so soft, and there's not much of it; and under it, you can feel firm muscle, which twitches at your touch. "Nothin'. Just two best friends, fucking each other senseless."

He lets out a breathy puff of air, and you bury your mouth in his shoulder as your wandering fingers go even lower, and lower. You find more hair, wiry hair, and a length that is somehow hard and soft at the same time, long and smooth and velvety and perfect.

You graze your fingers along it, and Terran sucks in a breath through his teeth.

"Wha—" Your hands freeze. "Did that hurt?"

He shakes his head like it might come clean off his shoulders. "Feels good." He bucks against your hand. _Into_ your hand. "Real good."

"Oh." You give a little squeeze. He's so hard. Almost intimidatingly so. You gulp. "You, uh, ever done this before?"

He shakes his head. "You?"

"Me neither."

As you consider this potentially complicating information, that third bottle of sombai chooses this particular instant to come rushing back, and the room spins round and round like you're caught in a maelstrom. It's a good thing you've got Terran's dick in your hand to anchor you, because otherwise you're pretty sure that you might fall off the bed and roll across the floor.

Below you, Terran suddenly looks unsure. "How'll we know if we're doing it right?"

You shrug. Wow, that was a mistake. Your stomach pitches and your balance feels more precarious than ever. You try to ignore it and give him what you hope is a sexy grin. "Think we'll know."

"Oh." He smiles but otherwise looks unconvinced.

Letting go of his dick, your bring your fingers up to his cheek. It's nice just to hold him like this, too. You can't fall off the edge of the world if you hold him. "We'll go slow," you assure him, as well as yourself, "We got all the time in the world."

He grins, and you lower yourself onto him again. Beneath you, Terran shifts and does some sort of magic acrobatic move that you can't quite track, and just like that he's now the one on top. _Wow_. Fuck, it feels good to have him above you: pressing you down, warm and strong and solid, like a blanket that's also kissing you. He's like comfort. Like home.

You almost feel guilty about that.

You kiss some more, and then you don't, and then you do, and then you don't—but the spaces in between the kissing are getting longer, and they're punctuated with Terran resting his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat. That's nice too. That's maybe even nicer than the kissing.

Your fingers card through his hair, the silky strands falling away like water.

"Your hair's sweaty," you say.

"Good. Mebbe people won' say's perfect anymore," he slurs after a longer-than-usual pause.  

You shake your head back and forth on the pillow, but only just. "Still perfect. You perfect. Just. Th'. Way. You."

It seems a huge effort to finish the thought, and it doesn't matter anyway, because you're pretty sure he isn't listening anyway. 

Your eyes drift shut. You feel yourself growing soft, which isn't quite as dire a situation as you might otherwise expect, because Terran is still here, his hair in your mouth and his head on your chest and his leg wrapped around yours like a sailor climbing a mast. He isn't going anywhere. Neither are you.

You know there will be time to kiss and fondle and fuck later. There'll be plenty of time. For now, though, you just need a little break. Yeah. That's it. A break. You'll kiss Terran some more in a minute. Maybe two. For now it's enough to just hold him, to know he is yours and you are his, to have your entire universe resting on your chest, sweet and safe, here in your arms.   

Terran grows heavier upon you. His breath evens out. The world is still out there, somewhere, outside the door of this room; out there Mia still needs saving and the Lord of Shadows still needs defeating and somebody, at some point, has got to lock that door so that no well-meaning older sisters or grandfathers will try to come rouse Terran in the morning. But for now, all that is so far away. For now, you just need to rest.

You just need to rest.

**

When you open your eyes, it's bright. Too bright. Cruel, searing sunlight streams through the slats in the window shutters. Your stomach pitches violently, your head is pounding something fierce, and your mouth feels like something crawled in it and died.

There's also another, more confusing sensation. Something warm. Comforting. Peaceful. Through the foggy soup that your thoughts have become, you realize that you're not actually alone in this bed. That there is someone else here, pressing up against you, nuzzling into your shoulder, and—holy fucking hell, it's _Terran._

Suddenly you are wide awake.

Terran is in your arms. On top of you. Wrapped around you like a goddamn tentacular.

How did he—Why is he—What? Why?

_How?_

He is mostly dressed, and you are too, though somehow the laces of your tunic are ripped and one of your shoes is missing and several of the buckles on his duster feel like they've come undone. You can't tell for sure, because checking would mean disentangling from Terran, and you are absolutely, positively _not_ going to do that.

You rack your brain for how this particular apocalypse might have come to pass, but the last thing you remember is getting kicked out of the bar, and… maybe… something about rolling across the plaza?

But seeing as how you both still have your clothes on, more or less, it's probably safe to assume nothing— _untoward—_ actually happened between you last night. You hope. Or maybe you don't. Honestly you're not sure what you hope. Especially not with Terran breathing so steadily into your neck, like he goddamn _belongs_ there, like the crook of your shoulder was made just for him.

Oh fucking _hell._

However, you do have this overwhelming sense that something important was left unsaid, or undone, and so you're feeling rather confident that must mean you didn't tup your best friend. That's probably a good thing, seeing as how it's definitely one of those things you'd prefer to at least remember the morning after.

Your bladder protests, and you contemplate how you might manage to roll out from under Terran without waking him. Maybe then you can slip out the door and run into the Champs Sauvage and let the nearest Jargon eat you alive. Or, equally amenable, somehow bar the door and never leave this room until the end of time.     

This is a dream. It has to be.

Terran stirs. Wordlessly he moans into your chest.

Your heart races. The dream's real now. Whatever this is, there's no escaping it.

"Hey." He lifts his head and smiles blearily without lifting his chin from your chest, and dear Yggdrasil, it is simultaneously the most beautiful and terrifying thing you have ever seen. You can't even bring yourself to blink. "My head's killing me."

"Me too. We—uh," you shift a little, but he doesn't move, and the movement only serves to nestle him closer to you. "We sure drank a lot, didn't we?"

"Yep. Sure did."

Again he gives you that sleepy, fond smile. And it's like he's not petrified at all; it's like this is, in fact, precisely where he wants to be. Like there's some marvelous secret shared between you. Yggdrasil above, you'd give anything to know what it is.

He seems to sense something is wrong, however. He levers himself up to one elbow, hair falling around his cheeks, and holy shit if that isn't the most gorgeous sight you've ever seen, Terran above you, sleep-rumpled and flushed and perfect. Your breath hitches in your throat. Your dick is so hard that you're worried it'll tear clean through the bedsheets.

"Hey," he touches your cheek with feather-light fingers. The touch shoots through you, electric, and you wince. "Hey, what's wrong?"

You can't speak. Instead you just make a sort of wet, gurgling sound. Your death rattle, maybe.

"Are you okay?" Terran's eyes widen. "Erik?"

"I'm fine." You frown. "Um, Terran?"

"Yeah?"

"Why is there chalk in your hair?"

"Huh? What, you don’t—rem—" Terran's breath hitches. Dread, clear as the daylight still stinging your eyes, passes over his face. "Oh. Oh, s _hit._ "

He is up and off of you in an instant, so quickly that you could probably take an imprint of him on your flesh and cast a new Terran from bronze. Your whole body feels cold, not just the outsides, and you tell yourself it's only because he took you by such surprise that you don't immediately reach out to bring him back to where he was.

"Oh. Oh, man. Sorry. _Sorry._ " He swings his legs over the side of the bed, facing away from you. "This, uh, sure looks like, like a thing, doesn't it? Heh." He rubs at the back of his neck. "Heh heh. Oh hell. 'Scuse me." 

He lurches off the bed and proceeds to fumble about with the buckles of his duster, an effort that takes his complete concentration. His hands look like they might be shaking.

Falling back onto the pillow, you bring your hand to your temple in the hopes that it will keep your skull from splitting apart. It doesn't seem to be working much.

You knew this had to be a dream. You knew this had to be too good to be true.

"What happened last night?" you manage.

"Nothing. Well. That is. Ow." Dropping the buckle, he brings one of his fingers to his mouth and sucks. The sound makes you feel like your dick could do cartwheels. But man, you really do need to piss first. "Do you, um, remember anything about last night?"

"Yes. No." You swallow thickly. "Not really. Fill me in?"

"We—got drunk."

"I gathered that. What else?"

"Uh. We drew a mural of Hendrik. You gave him tits. Then we, uh, came back here. Crashed. Went to sleep."

"Went to sleep?"

"Yeah."

You steel yourself. "Did we…?"

" _No._ " Terran shakes his head so hard his grimy hair whips around him like a cloud. "No. No. No. Gosh, no. Of course not."  

"Oh." You think about it for a little while, willing the mush inside your skull to make sense of his answers, but it's not really working. "But—I mean. You—uh—"

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that." His face is beet red. He still won't look at you. "I didn't mean to get, uh, so close. I get cuddly when I get drunk. It's a real problem. Heh. Once, I woke up snuggling Durstan's horse, wouldn't you know it. Heh. Heh heh."

"Oh." You lick your lips. It feels like water hasn't touched them in weeks. "So. You were just. Uh. Cuddly."

"Yep." His hand scratches the back of his flaming neck. "You know me. Heh. Your good ol' cuddly pal Terran."

Everything feels like it's going off the rails. What if you laid back down and pulled him back into your arms and pretended like none of this had happened? Would that even work? Would you even want it to?

Would you even deserve it, if it did?

"Anyway." He finishes buckling his duster. With a quick pass over his hair with his hands, he squares his shoulders and finally looks you in the eye. For a brief second, at least, before his gaze again slides away. He mumbles, "I'm-gonna-go-check-on-the-girls."

"Oh. Okay." The sunlight catches Terran's hair and turns it to gold. Something inside you starts to scream, and scream. "No, wait."

Terran's hand falls from the door handle. "Y-yes?"

There's chalk on the back of Terran's duster. Lots of it. And your lips feel bruised and your thighs are sore and you still need to piss and you have this irrational, bone-deep terror that if you let Terran walk out that door right now, he'll have turned into a statue the next time you see him.

But you can't keep him here forever. Can you?

"Nothing," you mutter.

With a wordless mumble, Terran opens the door and is gone. You lay on the bed for several more minutes, hands tangled in the sheets, unable to move, the weight of all the things you can't remember pressing you down, turning you to stone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry not sorry about that ending, y'all. :) But hey, now at least Erik and Terran are even?
> 
> Feel free to come yell at me on Tumblr. I'm Flutiebear there as well.


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